


in the shape of things

by wearealltalesintheend



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Hurt Crowley, M/M, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wings, mostly dumb humor though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-12 00:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19218151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearealltalesintheend/pseuds/wearealltalesintheend
Summary: The day had begun perfectly sensible, not too bright and not too dim, just the exact thing you expect from your English summer; a sure sign Adam has got the hang of this Antichrist thing.Which is why, perhaps, Aziraphale should have known it could only go downhill from there. It’s just how these things go. But alas, he did not and therefore did not pick up on the vague sense of impending doom that loomed by the door when the knocking began.“Oh,Crowley,”he gasps once the demon comes into view in the sidewalk outside. He’s soaking wet from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, and his wings–oh, his wings!They’re torn in some places, a few primaries hanging loose, and his left wing is definitely bent awkwardly. “What have you done?”*or, Crowley hurts his wings through a definitely not stupid accident and Aziraphale insists he stays in the bookshop for observation. It goes less than smoothly.





	in the shape of things

**Author's Note:**

> okay i'm still reading the book and it's very daunting to write something based on Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, but gosh this show has ended me and someone gave me this prompt on tumblr!
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it!

The day had begun perfectly sensible, not too bright and not too dim, just the exact thing you expect from your English summer; a sure sign Adam has got the hang of this Antichrist thing.

Which is why, perhaps, Aziraphale should have known it could only go downhill from there. It’s just how these things go. But alas, he did not and therefore did not pick up on the vague sense of impending doom that loomed by the door when the knocking began.

“Oh,  _Crowley,”_ he gasps once the demon comes into view in the sidewalk outside. He’s soaking wet from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, and his wings–  _oh, his wings!_  They’re torn in some places, a few primaries hanging loose, and his left wing is definitely bent awkwardly. “What have you done?”

“Don’t want to talk about it,” Crowley scowls, wiping pitifully the cracked lenses of his glasses. “Didn’t even mean to come here, was trying for my flat, really, but it’s impossible to see in these blasted things,” he takes off his sunglasses angrily, but still tucks them safely in the inside pocket of his ruined jacket.

Well, that explains  _nothing._

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale begins carefully, sensing Crowley is in a spiky mood and could very well stomp away, bloody wings and all, but finds he doesn’t quite know what to say and trails off awkwardly.

Mercifully, Crowley beats him to it. “Although now that I’m here,” he looks down at himself, turning his nose at the sight, and glances back at Aziraphale, yellow eyes almost bashful. “Would you mind, erm,” he gestures vaguely at his dripping clothes.

“Oh,  _oh,_  of course,” Aziraphale hurries out. Truth be told, he had been itching to take a closer look at the damage, see if he can soothe the inevitable pain there, and receiving permission to fuss comes as a blessed relief.

First, he miracles the water away, drying up Crowley in the afternoon sun before the demon caught a cold. Then, he prepares himself to assess the wings, grimacing already at the poor estate they’re in.

“Do come in, dear,” he ushers Crowley in now that he isn’t dripping wet anymore and is no longer a threat to his books, but the demon digs in his heels, spluttering adamant noises about not needing to be coddled.

Absolutely nonsense if you ask Aziraphale.

“If you’re quite done,” he sniffs after Crowley finished talking himself into circles, “the tea is getting cold.”

Crowley huffs.

“Fine. Have it your way, angel,” he glares, then adds haughtily, “but I reserve the right to complain the whole time.”

*

They end up settling on Crowley staying in the small room upstairs since Aziraphale hardly ever indulges in sleeping anyway.

And if it should have been dusty and moldy after not being used in several decades, well, it had never occurred to either of them that that should be the case, so the room had the good sense of adjusting itself.

Crowley’s wings were in quite a state, too, but it shouldn’t take too long to heal, about a week or so if he doesn’t move them much, Aziraphale would say.

While Crowley halfheartedly suggests miracling them better, they both know this kind of things are best left to their own devices, nothing good comes of rushing the ethereal– or, erm,  _the occult,_ in this case[1].

So now, Aziraphale does his best to clean up the mud and torn feathers, and set the bone right, Crowley standing stock still under his hand and shivering every minute or so.

It must be a bit cold without a shirt on, the shop is a bit drafty, he has to admit.

*

“Crowley,” he says the next day while watching the telly he had set up on the counter of his shop to remind his customers they’d be better off leaving the books be.

“Yes, angel?” comes the silky reply from the back room.

“The news is reporting a rather interesting story,” he says mildly, “it seems a gentleman was caught wrestling the ducks at St. James yesterday.”

Silence reigns for a minute.

Then, “humans lie, you shouldn’t believe everything you see on TV, you know.”

“Oh, do they now,” Aziraphale smiles amusedly. He can just see the pout Crowley is undoubtedly sporting right now. Still, “but the ducks, really?”

A pause.

“Yes, well, maybe the ducks were being bloody bastards.”

“Of course, dear, I’m sure the ducks had it coming,” he laughs quietly, turning up the volume just a notch, just to be sure it’s heard in the back room.

*

The strange thing out of all this isn’t having Crowley over but how normal it feels to have Crowley over. It’s alarmingly easy to accommodate him into Aziraphale’s routine and the sight of the demon lounging in sunlit places of the shop is alarmingly endearing. He rather looks like a cat, stretched on the loveseat or curled up in corners, and Aziraphale feels something warm perking up inside his chest every time he catches sight of him.

It’s also quite easy to bid him good night after late night drinks and watch him bound upstairs, a bit unsteadily and giggling all the way, and it’s even easier to huff a laughter at his mussed hair in the morning.

It’s considerably less easy not to follow him up to the bedroom, but Aziraphale is very good at not thinking about things like this. And it’s not as if they’re new, anyway.

That being said, this doesn’t mean Crowley isn’t making good on his word– while he’s not doing anything so obvious as  _complaining_ , he’s set on making Aziraphale kick him out.

He whines about the tea and he whines about the coffee, and he whines about having to walk all the way back to the park to pick up the Bentley he left behind[2].

But most of all, Aziraphale is dead sure that Crowley is attracting people into the bookshop.

Ever since the demon had taken up residence upstairs, at least three or two people can be found in the shop every hour or so. It’s the most customers it’s seen on the regular ever since being opened and before the invention of ebooks, and it’s understandably very confused and upset. Aziraphale is climbing up the walls to shoo them all out and discouraging them from purchasing anything of true value[3].

It makes no harm, but it’s driving Aziraphale mad.

_Enough is enough,_  he thinks, as he steels himself to confront Crowley in the backroom. It should not make him this nervous, it’s just Crowley after all, but Aziraphale has never been terribly good at saying no to the demon. It’s almost impossible, in fact, what with those wide golden eyes staring up at you.  _Impossible,_ he swears.

“Crowley,” he says, firmly, and pats himself in the back for his assertiveness, “you must stop this nonsense at once.”

The bell rings at the front.

“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about, angel,” Crowley drawls. On his lap, today’s paper is open in the crosswords, halfway done.

_“Hello?”_ a voice calls from the front.

_“That_  is what I’m talking about,” Aziraphale huffs, gesturing the door separating them from the irritating customer in the other room. He gives him a pointed look. “You know very well what you’re doing. It won’t work, anyhow, so there’s no need to keep on with it.”

“Still haven’t the foggiest, sorry.”

_“Hullo? Anyone here?”_

“It sounds like you got a customer, angel,” Crowley smirks and his amusement is visible even through the sunglasses. It’s written all over him, really. “You should see to that, it won’t do to lose business now, not in this economy.”

“Are you serious– _oh for the love of–,”_  he bustles to the front of the shop, zeroing on the lady by the counter and shooing her right off. “I’m very sorry, ma’am, but we’re closed right now. You’ll have to come back at some other time, or not, that’s up to you, but I must insist that you leave.”

The lady seems quite annoyed at that and not very likely to come back at all, and Aziraphale flips the sign in the front to make it extremely clear they will not be opening today. The door locks, a deadbolt that had not been there before sliding shut.

“There,” he says once he’s back, crossing his arms over his chest to indicate he’s not, he’s not…  _playing around._  “That’s taken care of. I understand it must be quite _boring_  to stay here all this time, but is this really necessary, dear boy?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “If you’re implying I’m somehow using a miracle or two to tempt people into coming in,” he leans forward on his seat, lips curling into a sharp grin, “then I’d have to say it would be impossible. I am, after all,  _terribly_  injured.  _Unless,_  of course, you were to agree that twisting a wing or two the wrong way is not so serious as you make it to be.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “That’s all right,” he smiles serenely, “if you say so. But since your corporation is in fine shape, you’ll have no problem in showing the next customers around the shop, then.”

_“Now, wait a second there, Aziraphale–”_

The influx of customers dwindles drastically after that.

*

“After all,” Aziraphale says by the end of the week, after checking over the now nearly healed injuries on Crowley’s wings. The feathers are soft to the touch again and the bone seems to be well on its way to fully healed. A small part of him, the one he takes great care not to notice too much, already grieves the loss of not having the demon around as much. “What were you doing in the park?”

Crowley ducks his head, buttoning his shirt back on with not so steady fingers, and pointedly not looks at him. “It’s none of your business,” he sighs, “but if you must know, I was meeting an antique’s dealer.”

_“An antique’s dealer,”_  Aziraphale repeats disbelieving. A bottle of a very good red wine appears in his liquor cabinet and he pours them both healthy doses. “You’re thinking of acquiring any more priceless pieces of art?”

He’s thinking of the Mona Lisa sketch in Crowley’s apartment, yes. Crowley gives him a look through his sunglasses the says  _oh, get off it, enough about the Da Vinci._  Aziraphale sips his wine and pretends he didn’t see it. “No, not exactly,” Crowley continues, primly reaching for his suit jacket and bringing out a black box that should not have fit there from the breast pocket. “I was buying this old thing off his hands.”

Curious despite himself, Aziraphale makes for the box, hesitating until Crowley nods his permission. Then, he opens it carefully, half afraid of what might be inside, Heaven knows what could have moved Crowley into sniffing around the antiques black market after all.

_A pocket watch._

The answer is a golden, shiny pocket watch that Aziraphale knows will have his name engraved in the back and whose seconds hand always runs just a bit too fast.

He knows this because it’s the pocket watch he lost somewhere in Switzerland around the late 19th century. He had mourned its loss all throughout the 20th century and certainly moaned about it to the demon many times.

“Is this,” he murmurs, gently pulling it out of the box, lets the chain pool on his open hand. “Oh,  _Crowley.”_

“Don’t say anything,” Crowley warns, glumly retreating as far in the couch as possible, as if distancing himself from it. “It’s only so you’ll stop whining about it. It was starting to get on my nerves, is all.”

“Of course it is, my dear,” Aziraphale says with a knowing smile. It won’t do to push Crowley on this, they’ve played this tune a few times over the year and it always sounds best when he lets the demon keep up the selfish appearances. Still, he knows the tenderness, the gratitude, and all this warm, light love must be glowing through his eyes. “Is this what you were wrestling with the ducks for?”

“Yes, the bastards nicked it from my hand when I was distracted,” he scowls again, shoulders easing a little and tension seeping from his edges. “Figured it wouldn’t take much to get it back, but turns out they’re bloodthirsty gits. Below should consider replacing a few hellhounds with them, I’ll say.”

Aziraphale hums distractedly in agreement. Crowley can talk all he wants, go into another one of his rants, and think he’s fooling everyone but the watch doesn’t lie. It’s like back in Tadfield, something is loved enough and it leaves footprints behind. This is no different, it stayed this whole week and a half with Crowley and some of his feelings towards it have bled into the metal.

And Aziraphale knows for a fact Crowley doesn’t care for watches of any kind, much less something so outdated.

He smiles.

_“Thank you,_ Crowley,” he interrupts him mid-rant, watches his eyes go round behind the glasses and his face turn a shade redder. Crowley falls silent, softens.

“Don’t mention it, angel,” Crowley shrugs carelessly, voice is anything but. His wings flutter in the ethereal plane and the air where they would be shimmers.  _Thank you,_  he means.

Aziraphale sets the box down in the desk and hooks the watch into his vest. The sunlight reflects off the gold and warms the room. He pours them more wine and it tastes even sweeter with the _I love you too_  floating between them[4].

*

1\. See, around the fifth century Aziraphale got his own wings in a spot. It was a case of bad landing, really, a silly mistake, but it twisted his right wing wrong at the tips and the bone cracked a bit. Nothing to worry over, and since he had been in a rush, Aziraphale had healed it on the spot.

Never was the same, that one. Always itches when it rains.[return to text]

2.  _That_ had been an interesting conversation and Aziraphale had been amused by it, on and off, for days.  _Why didn’t you drive it here?_ he had asked that first night while pouring them both some wine. Crowley had made an affronted noise,  _soaking wet? It would’ve ruined the leather!_ the demon had huffed.  _Why didn’t you dry yourself up, then?_  And that had been met with an awkwardly guilty silence. Crowley had not thought of that at the time and left the Bentley alone in the park. 

The papers next day had reported  _Love of My Life_ by the English band Queen could be heard playing all night long near St. James Park. [return to text]

3. Not that any of them buy anything. They seem to come in very intent on buying rare and early editions of all sorts of books, but they all end up losing interest after a good fifteen minutes. Aziraphale hasn’t sold a copy in the whole week, except for a guide to London to a very lost tourist looking for the Eiffel Tower.[return to text]

4\. As it turns out, the wine is at it’s sweetest when tasted in Crowley’s tongue, but Aziraphale won’t find this until a few days later when Crowley’s wings heal and he shows no intention of moving back out.

**Author's Note:**

> okay if you liked, you can always come talk to me or send me a prompt on [my tumblr](https://rad-hoodd.tumblr.com)


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